Moira Tonnerre
"You tease, Bexley Briar" Moira breathes out, soft as a dandelion being blown, laughter evident around the edges of every syllable. She likes saying the lion woman's name. It rolls smoothly like a rich glass of scotch, easy to swallow, easier to let it slip out. Still, for a moment she wonders if she can do him justice? Eik is a complicated conglomeration of white and gold and red and gray; a storm on a sunny day, a man of many colors who wears silver the best. He'd look good in a suit, she thinks, pondering if he should have clothes in the image. But no - that would simply be too much. In all his simplicity, he would make a fine subject for a king. "You know Eik then? I think he's quite charming." Thoughtfully she sucks on her lip, looking into blue eyes that seem to have softened since they first met.
They are so close, the phoenix woman can feel herself blushing furiously at Bexley's next words, wonders if she can see it on her own face too. If she listens closely enough, she's curious to know if she could hear what's running through that blond head. Logically, the woman within her that believes wholeheartedly in sciences, that has given her life to the study of life and the cause to further it, knows that this is not possible. But the dreamer, the child, the artist that breathes just as much as the more logical part cannot help but to let itself be known. "Practice helps," she murmurs at last, smiling like the cheeky, young girl that she is. "I can teach you." The honesty, the earnestness - it's all there in the simmering look she offers back.
With another blush, the moment has passed and Moira Tonnerre moves herself away from Bexley's side, quickly settling beside the well once more to draw up the cool water to wash her own skin. It spills like milk and honey over her wing that is gingerly (loathsome and terribly) stretched out. The movement is so foreign, and it is easy to tell that the appendages make her off-balanced. Unlike others who were born for the skies, she does not know how to use her own wings, how to feel comfortable within her own skin despite the confidence she feigns.
In all parts of her life, Moira sought to be an expert and in control. In all parts, that is, save for one that is as much a part of her as the air she breathes.
With her wing wobbling, seeming as new as a newborn chick's, she begins to push the water over each feather. Gentle are her movements as she holds in a cringe, two, and then more. Touch is still hard, a foreign thing. Estelle is the only one who dared nestle close when they were girls. Even her parents did not touch her wings, let them become as alien to her as she was in Novus when first coming here. For a moment, Bexley is gone and the ice is back, the chains are back, the fire is nipping at her feathertips. And how it stings as the night does not, pulls a gasp out, a startled breath, until she's wide eyed and apologetic. "What made your temper fall before - when you were ready to strike but found me instead of your attacker?" A distraction from the sensation washing through her wings as much as it is a way to start a new conversation, Moira finds herself looking imploringly to Bexley again.
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